Nothing Quite So Spectacular
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: How John Watson grieves after Sherlock Holmes' alleged suicide, and what happens when the detective returns home. Set post-Reichenbach, two parts.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

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**Nothing Quite So Spectacular**

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Part 1

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The worst thing about Sherlock being gone is that John can't get rid of him. He is holding on to his deceased friend too tightly because letting go would feel like treason. He can't abandon Sherlock, his memory, his very essence, therefore the detective stays with him. Sometimes it's making John's skin crawl, but it's what he wants, apparently; his subconscious is holding him hostage.

While Sherlock was alive, there were countless times on which John was more than a little annoyed by him, there even were the odd occasions on which he hated him. Recalling those moments in detail seems infeasable now, impossible to the extreme: it shames John, makes him think he must have been wrong back then. He knows he wasn't, of course, since Sherlock had the tendency to drive anyone up the wall, and yet: he wants those moments back just as he wants all the others, craves to change what has happened, undo whatever caused any negativity. It's common to euphemize the past, especially when it concerns the dead, he is aware of that.

_You're being romantic_, Sherlock's ghost tells him, _don't do that_. _I was never one to embellish things when they didn't deserve it._

"How can I _not_," John asks, and his voice seems contorted in the empty room, "when I was happiest while I was with you, even when you were being an ignorant bastard?"

The ghost is contemplating that, lounging in his armchair. John can't bear to look at it, but he listens to its voice: _You've got a point there, of course_, it says, sounding pensive. _Your life must have been so dull before I came along._

"I fought in a war, I wouldn't call that _dull_!" John is actually getting angry; Sherlock has a habit of riling him up when he's bored, just for some entertainment.

Before the ghost can answer, there's a hesitant knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson peeks in. "John, dear," she says almost timidly, "I thought I was hearing voices..." Her own fades a little when she realizes John is alone and the TV isn't on either.

"I was talking to myself," John says; out of the corner of his eye he sees the ghost smirking.

"Oh," the old lady doesn't seem convinced, but then, nothing is certain nowadays. "All right... Would you like some tea, love?"

"No, thank you." John can't have tea now, in this usually cozy afternoon hour; he can't have normality. He can't entertain the notion that everything is as it should be, when it's actually the opposite: Sherlock's gone and John is haunted by his ghost out of his own volition.

When he puts in some real effort, the ghost disappears. It's a relief each time, even though John still hears its voice; Sherlock has a lot of things to say. Yet the apparition itself is a nuisance; it's not like Sherlock at all when John looks at it closely, the nuances aren't right. He's afraid he will forget how the real Sherlock looked like if he stares at his impostor for too long; already, he's having trouble to recall him when he isn't concentrated, because he's too exhausted and overwrought and worn. He feels as insubstantial as the ghost sometimes.

* * *

When he sleeps, and it's not necessarily something he likes to do these days, the strangest ideas come to him; even in his dreams, he tries to fathom who Sherlock really was and why he ended his life like that. Inconceivably, his mind is straying to ships each time. A strange connection, since John has never been particular to them, but now he sails unknown seas each time he dozes off, and eventually he realizes that the ships are meant to represent something else: his and Sherlock's life, the course they had taken together. He always knows the names of these ships when he wakes, and they do change: Indefatigable. Intrepid. Nonpareil.

He ponders those names in his waking hours, at least when he's not distracted by anything else. They should have been more careful, he tells himself, shouldn't have _blundered_ on as carelessly as before once Moriarty had entered the stage. What could he have done to prevent what happened?

_Nothing_, the ghost provides, _you couldn't have stopped me. You know that as well as I do_.

And yet John's thoughts reel back to Barts rather frequently, no matter how much he curses, no matter how hard he balls his fists.

_It's futile_, the ghosts says, _why bother_?

John hurtles his mug at it, which passes straight through its chest, but that doesn't make any difference, of course: the spectre doesn't even blink. The mug shatters as it hits the wall; nothing in this world is indefatigable, apparently not even Sherlock Holmes. He was after all exhausted enough by it all to end his life.

While John tries to blink the hot, unwelcome tears away which are suddenly clouding his vision, Mrs Hudson hurries into the room: "John, what-" The fact that she didn't hesitate to enter this time is a clear indicator of how she's on constant alert these days, how much she worries about John and seems to be afraid that he'll harm himself.

Not surprising, he thinks bitterly, since the other person she's had to worry about is gone. This notion doesn't help with the tears, but he doesn't endeavour to hide them as Mrs Hudson, who's by now realized what just happened, turns towards him with a dismayed expression. She has never seen anyone so broken-hearted. Gingerly, she squats down on the armrest of John's chair and puts her arm around his shoulders; it's not the first time, and from the looks of it, it won't be the last.

As they weep together in silence, the ghost watches with a doleful expression.

* * *

John doesn't even notice how time slips by. He does of course register changes in temperature and the length of daylight, but it's like he's watching it all from the outside; he doesn't partake. He can't relate to people enjoying the sun on warm summer days, he can't marvel at the autumnal colours when the leaves on the trees begin to change, and he can't under any circumstances find it in him to think of Christmas, or the New Year. The latter is worst; the last year still had Sherlock in it, if not for too long. The last year started with Sherlock being there, which was so much better than this new one, which is empty and bereft.

The ghost isn't an appropriate replacement. It does appear less frequent, however. John doesn't know how he's achieved that, but he is glad about it; he still doesn't want to let go of his friend, but it's ever so exhausting to argue with something which isn't really there. And it seems wrong because it makes him forget the real conversations they had; they didn't argue all the time, after all. Sherlock and he were actually able to talk to each other, something a lot of people didn't seem to believe at the time.

In fact, Sherlock was the only one who understand about the war, about Harry, about John. Sometimes the doctor got up in the night for one reason or another, and went downstairs to get something to drink. Sherlock often was still up then, and they often ended up having a cup of tea, sometimes talking, sometimes not.

_I should have made my days into nights, just like he did_, John thinks bitterly; he still tends to try and come up with ways he could have spent more time with Sherlock than he already did. It is ridiculous, but that's another thing he can't stop so easily.

* * *

On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John leaves Baker Street and goes to buy some flowers. He has already raised his hand to flag down a cab when he realizes he can't do it. He won't find Sherlock there today, only a black headstone. He puts the flowers on the kitchen table; they are later rescued by Mrs Hudson.

"I need to move out," he tells her that evening. She grips her cardigan just about where her heart is, but she doesn't protest. It's not entirely unexpected, she has in fact wondered how he managed to stay for so long. 221B is unaltered, he didn't put any of Sherlock's things away, and he carries their weight on his shoulders. These days, he resembles an old man: hunched in on himself, with more flecks of grey in his hair than there were a year ago.

Moving is difficult and horrible. He feels like he is cutting off all which was dear to him, but he needs to do it if he wants to keep breathing, if he wants to live.

The thing he dreaded most is that the ghost might follow him to his new lodgings; it doesn't.

_Spectres are tied to a certain place_, he thinks, _stationary. Thank God_.

He isn't yet prepared to admit to himself that maybe this step has been the first one towards healing, because it still has the ring of abandoning his friend to it. It's enough that he's abandoning Baker Street.

* * *

John still doesn't care much about what is going on around him, but he needs to find a job. By unspoken agreement, Mycroft Holmes had taken it on himself to pay for the rent and bi-weekly grocery deliveries. Mrs Hudson has somehow been in on it, of course, and John only now realizes that he'd have starved and become homeless if it hadn't been for them.

Well, that's another thing which is behind him now. He pulls himself together enough to write and send off a few applications, and within two weeks, he's got a few interviews, resulting in a job at a day clinic.

It still feels strange when he talks to people, and he can't bring himself to make more small talk than absolutely necessary, but he's getting into a routine which is doing him good. He even remembers to buy food and toilet paper, to wash his clothes, to charge his phone. Not that he needs it much; it's mainly Harry who calls him, and sometimes he gets the occasional text from Lestrade, asking how he's doing.

He never quite knows what to answer: _I'm finally rid of the ghost, but I keep sailing in my dreams. I can't bear to go back to Baker Street to visit Mrs Hudson. I've managed to read_ _a book, the first one in ages, and I had nearly finished it when there was one sentence that set me off ("Only lies have details"). I still don't know how it ends._

So he texts back some commonplaces which he doesn't even remember afterwards.

He begins to look at the calendar again, if only for work-related purposes; on some days, he feels the sun on his face on his way to or from work, thawing him on the surface.

It's after about three months after he's taken on his new job that he realizes he's stopped talking to Sherlock altogether on most days; the detective is no longer with him all the time. For a moment, he feels his friend's loss afresh, it's just as raw and painful as on the first day. But he shakes himself out of it, he has to. He can't go on like this, he has become a shell.

It doesn't mean he's stopped missing the man.

It doesn't mean he's abandoned his memories.

* * *

Life does become a little easier with time. John's colleagues, who've been wondering about him for a while, begin to warm to him, invite him along if they go to the pub. It's an effort for him, but he manages, and it's also doing him good. He's never been someone who isolated himself, and only now that he slowly stops doing it he realizes that he's actually missed having company.

He's deliberately vague about it when he ponders it, because the company he really craves won't come back, and he can't yet face that hard fact without feeling the now familiar despair which has been haunting him all these months. Not being so terribly alone anymore is a merit in itself; he still has to get through the nights on his own, after all.

He's still far from being all right, but now, with tentative hope, he thinks he might be getting there if nothing goes wrong.

He has of course no idea what is going to happen next.

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**To Be Continued**

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Thank you for reading. Please be so kind to leave some feedback.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you again hatondog, Firefly-Maj, Flip and AnythingBut for taking the time to leave a few words, I highly appreciate it!

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**Nothing Quite So Spectacular**

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Part 2

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In hindsight, John wouldn't go so far as to say it went _wrong_; it rather felt like being thrown off kilter.

On a cold, rainy Friday evening in early November, John comes home tired and weary. He is about to put the key to his building into the lock when something undefined makes him pause and turn around. For a moment, he only stares. Then, with a gasp, he loses his grip on the keys since his fingers are suddenly numb; he barely hears the clattering as they falls to the ground.

There, no six feet away from him, stands the ghost. A small part of John immediately knows that it's not a ghost, otherwise he wouldn't have dropped his keys; ghosts don't scare him, not even this one does anymore.

He still can't move, can't say anything. He is dumbfounded, confused, terrified. He would probably have stood there forever, rooted to the spot, if the ghost hadn't begun to speak:

"John," it says, and the voice is not inside his head this time. John's ears tingle, and a shiver runs down his spine. He can't but stare, open-mouthed, doesn't realize he is breathing harshly.

"John," the ghost repeats, and its voice is soft and deep and reaches right into the doctor's soul. He feels his eyes becoming moist and his knees turning into jelly. He must be dreaming, must have had an accident, probably has been sustained a head injury. This here, looking exactly like the ghost which was with him for such a long time, is Sherlock Holmes. He does look thinner than the ghost, haggard, his hair is a little shorter. And yet.

"How are you not dead," John manages, his voice hoarse.

"I didn't die," Sherlock answers softly.

The overwhelming fact that he is really there and not just a figment of John's imagination catches the doctor anew, and he sways, stretching out his hand and supporting himself on the wall.

"I saw you," he says stubbornly, because he hasn't comprehended it yet, "I took your pulse. You were d-" His voice gives out, as unexpected as all of this, but that's what the memory of those horrid moments is doing to him even now.

"It was a trick." Sherlock's expression is carefully blank. "I had to convince a few people that I did die."

"Like me." John feels an onslaught of anger rising up in him.

"No, John. You weren't the primary target."

"Oh." Even though John still doesn't understand, it hurts. He wants to be the primary everything, he bloody deserves it, for heaven's sake! "So you're saying you put me and Mrs Hudson and the others through all this misery just because you felt like staging a play, is that it?"

"It was my only option. I didn't stage it though; Moriarty did."

"Mo- Right. Of course," John snorts, bitterly. "I should have known. You were playing games with him, after all."

"John," Sherlock sounds weary. "The whole matter can't be explained in two sentences. It was a bit more complicated."

"Explain, then. I'll listen." Bristling, John lets go of the wall and crosses his arms in front of his chest. His legs are still feeling wobbly, but he'll be damned if he lets Sherlock notice it.

God. For a moment, his anger is nearly drowned out by a surge of euphoria at the sudden realization that he can use present tense again when referring to his friend. He quells it as effectively as he can though, because he needs to be angry for the time being. He can't understand otherwise, can't counterbalance the terrible time which lies behind him if Sherlock isn't going to present a waterproof reason why he did it.

Sherlock glances around: "Can't we go inside?"

John hesitates, not feeling up to make allowances yet, but it's cold and dark and he'd rather see Sherlock's face properly, and get off his feet.

* * *

The detective doesn't say anything as they enter the tiny flat; he probably senses that John is rather near the end of his tether already. They take off their coats for want of something to do, and it occurs to John that he has never before seen Sherlock any less than self-confidant.

John craves some tea, but the very idea of putting the kettle on seems infeasable; doing something so normal would send the wrong signals, just as sitting down would. He wants Sherlock to know that he's still on trial, so he crosses his arms once more: "So? I'm listening."

For a moment, Sherlock seems completely lost for words, then he speaks, hesitantly at first. He tells John about Moriarty's plan and how he enforced it by killing himself. That he, Sherlock, had anticipated some kind of trap and had gotten Mycroft to help. How he faked his death in a carefully choreographed sequence of events and subsequently left the country in order to take down the madman's network.

John is watching with narrowed eyes. His frown is eventually easing a little as he gets an idea of the scale of the enterprise. Sherlock doesn't go into detail, only names the countries he went to and in which succession.

"Serbia was the last leg," he finishes, his voice fading to a soft, gravelly sigh: "I came home yesterday."

John shakes his head: "Have you been to Baker Street yet?"

"No." A small, not even remotely happy smile pulls at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "I was briefly at Mycroft's club, then I came here."

John swallows, for he suddenly has a lump in his throat. He blinks; the lump has brought company.

"You should have told me," he says, aware how his voice sounds rights now, unsteady and unmistakenly watery. "I would have helped you. I would have come with you."

"I know." Sherlock's face is grave now. "I couldn't, John. I'd have put you right back into danger."

John laughs, despite himself, but it's a bitter sound: "Christ, Sherlock- stop that! I can look after myself, I don't need you to protect me! If anything, you could have protected me from all the grief you put me through! Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me? I kept talking to your bloody ghost!"

Sherlock is momentarily lost for words. He hadn't been able to keep track while he was away, he doesn't know how exactly John fared; Mycroft has been remarkably unforthcoming on the matter, other than volunteering the unexpected news that John has moved out of 221B.

"I didn't mean to cause you such hardship," he eventually says, visibly uncomfortable.

John snorts again: "Hardship doesn't even _begin_ to cover it," he replies feebly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze: "I couldn't get rid of you. I couldn't get rid of the pictures in my head. The blood..." He closes his eyes for a moment. "Sometimes I forgot. It was even worse afterwards."

Sherlock looks stricken: "I don't know if it is of any consolation," he murmurs, "but I was tempted to call you plenty of times. Only..." He breaks off. John doesn't want to hear why he didn't, he's made that clear. And yet, protecting John had been his utmost priority; he didn't waver in that once.

"And why didn't you?" John isn't prepared to give up on that issue so easily. "You could have gotten Mycroft on to the task. He'd have managed to contact me discreetly, don't you think?"

"I didn't have _any_ contact to him once I left London," Sherlock says, slightly perplexed at the idea. "Therefore I couldn't have."

John stares: "He didn't help you, then? You did it all your own, whatever it was?"

"Mostly," Sherlock says. "Until two days ago, Mycroft didn't interfere."

At these rather inconspicuous words, John feels his stomach drop. "Why did he have to interfere?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"I had gotten myself into a rather tight spot," Sherlock replies, too lightly to deceive John.

"Tell me."

"It's not important."

"Sherlock."

The detective still hesitates, reluctantly: "... I had been captured and questioned. I was on the verge of freeing myself when Mycroft infiltrated the compound and got me out."

A shiver runs down John's spine. His mouth is dry as he tries to speak, and he has to clear his throat before he can ask: "And that was two days ago?"

"Yes."

"So...," John clearly is shaken by the intelligence. "Are you all right?"

"I am."

"They didn't..." Again, the doctor's voice gives out. He has after all noticed how weary Sherlock looks, how pale he is, much more so than usual.

Sherlock smirks humourlessly: "They did. It'll heal."

John exhales audibly, balling his hands into fists. The thought of anyone hurting Sherlock is more than he can bear, even now that he's angry at his friend. Well. If he's honest with himself, his anger has mostly evaporated while he listened to Sherlock talking about his time away.

"And did you succeed in taking down the network?" he then wants to know.

"I believe so."

John nods, whether in approval or just because he's relieved to hear that, or maybe both, he isn't sure.

For a moment, neither of them speaks; both of them are tired, uncomfortable with the unresolved situation they are finding themselves in. John doesn't find it in him to reprimand the detective, not after such a tale. He still feels left out, but it dawns on him just how difficult and dangerous an operation Sherlock had had to tackle. And Moriarty, though a madman, was cunning after all; maybe Sherlock was right in not letting John in on the matter. He had admittedly never entirely understood how the 'game' worked, hadn't been able to anticipate the next move as Sherlock had.

John sighs; he knows that he'll keep deliberating this for a while, but he also knows that he's very, very happy underneath his resentment; his chest didn't feel this light in ages.

"I can't say I've forgiven you," he states. "But I'm glad to have you back."

* * *

Now Sherlock sleeps. It's the slumber of a man who's well and truly exhausted. He's lying on his side, hands curled up next to his face. Maybe it's a defensive position; maybe John is just seeing things. The doctor eases himself down on the mattress and watches the apparition which has turned into something infinitely more solid, taking stock. He only briefly glances over the dark curls, the painfully familiar shape of the face; his gaze lingers on the dark smudges underneath Sherlock's eyes, the occasional twitch of his fingers. John doesn't know it, but his own face is soft and full of affection.

They have had tea and toast, and he was surprised that Sherlock ate something at all. John suspects it might have been purely for reasons of conciliation, but on the other hand, he looks rather starved; it has in fact never been as severe as this.

Afterwards, they sat on the sofa and talked some more, avoiding the more difficult subjects for the time being; John told Sherlock about his new job and his colleagues. It was illusory, this scene of domestic peace, dangerously cosy, a repetition of what has been.

The detective fell asleep at one point, and John, with the ease of experience, managed to wake him up just enough to lead him into his bedroom, where he flopped down rather gracelessly on John's bed. The sofa is neither comfortable nor even remotely large enough for anyone to spend the night on it, and even though a small part of John wants Sherlock to repent, he's not that mean.

The doctor is far too agitated to lie down; he fears he might wake up and find it has only been a dream, that Sherlock isn't really there. He couldn't bear the loss once again, he's certain it'd break his heart for real this time.

It's long after midnight when John finally lies down on the mattress next to Sherlock, leaving one light on.

He watches him and wonders whether the detective thinks all has been restored between them, just because their unexpected confrontation ended amicably. But no, Sherlock is not that gullible. It's rather a testimony that he trusts John enough to give in to his exhaustion.

_Quite a pair we make_, the doctor thinks, finally closing his eyes.

* * *

When he opens them again after what seems like five minutes, early morning light is filtering in through the half-closed curtains, and Sherlock is nowhere in sight. Dread assails John, immediately and nauseating. _Please_, he thinks. _Not that_.

Could it be that it has only been the ghost? It occurs to him that he never even touched last night's apparition, which seems unexcusable in hindsight.

He lies completely still for a moment, bracing himself for the full impact of disappointment, but then he lifts his head; he can smell coffee, and he's very decidedly not imagining it. His heart leaps.

Sherlock is standing with his back to John, who catches himself just in time not to gape: the detective is making what looks like scrambled eggs. During all their time as flatmates, that has happened maybe twice. John just looks at his friend for a moment; he looks rumpled, as he has slept in his clothes, but despite a clearly visible tension in his frame he moves as graceful as John is wont of him, now that he's had some rest.

He glances over his shoulder: "I made coffee," he states, unnecessarily: a novelty. It is Sherlock being cautious, knowing he's still moving on thin ice. In daylight, he looks even worse for wear; he didn't tell John what exactly happened in Serbia or before that, but his time away has definitely left its marks on him, most of them probably only visible if you knew him well.

John has a lump in his throat again, and before he can stop himself, he walks over to Sherlock: "Turn around."

Sherlock, never letting go of the spatula, slowly does as John says: "If you're going to punch me, please bear in mind that we're standing in front of a gas flame."

John ignores him, but instead of punching his friend, he closes his arms around him, effectively trapping Sherlock's own arms at his sides. Bits of half-cooked egg drop from the suspended spatula, unnoticed by either of them. Sherlock can feel John's heartbeat, the tremor in the shorter man's body, the uproar of emotions. He could have done without being hugged, especially since John doesn't know the precise nature of his injuries and the pressure on Sherlock's torso is rather uncomfortable, but he endures it because it might help to lessen John's pain, his resentment.

The doctor doesn't meet Sherlock's gaze when he finally lets go; he frowns, then lifts his arms again. For a moment, Sherlock is afraid that there is going to be follow-up hug, but John, focused on something different now, gently palpates his friend's back through the fine shirt, having felt the gauze dressings through the fabric while he embraced the detective.

He is silent now, still frowning, and his expression is serious when he looks up at Sherlock: "For once, I'm glad about Mycroft's interference."

"I'd have gotten out on my own."

John sighs, rolling his eyes: "Coffee sounds good," he then says, disappearing in the bathroom.

* * *

They don't talk much during breakfast. Sherlock is picking at his food as usual, his expression as tense as the rest of him. He looks as though he is pondering what to say, so John waits until he is ready.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Sherlock accordingly says at one point, even though it's far from what John expected to hear. He doesn't sound apologetic, it's a mere statement of a fact. It is the way Sherlock thinks. His mind is analytical, sometimes too much so: he isn't unfamiliar with emotions at all, even if he likes to pretend the opposite. John is still convinced that his tears on the rooftop were real. Incidentally, it is what he really wants to talk about.

"I kept wondering why I hadn't noticed something earlier," John therefore replies, and it takes Sherlock all of two seconds to realize that he's talking about his fall. "I kept agonizing about how desperate you must have been." He stares at his plate as he says this.

"Well," Sherlock puts down his mug and folds his hands in his lap. "Even though it's scientifically impossible, distances seem to increase when viewed from great heights. I have to admit that I wavered when I looked down for the first time."

"You were scared," John translates.

"I was intimidated."

The opposite of_ Intrepid_, John thinks. Loudly he says: "You were _scared_. Admit it."

"Fine. I was scared."

John raises his eyebrow because he knows that victories such as this aren't so easily achieved with Sherlock: "But?"

Sherlock remains silent for a while. "The notion was fleeting," he says eventually. "I knew I couldn't turn back anyway, I had to face it. It had been thoroughly calculated, after all." He takes a knife and begins to fiddle with it: "It was worse that I knew what I was doing to you."

John feels a rush of adrenaline at these words, because it's not often that Sherlock openly acknowledges that other people love him.

"Contrary to what you might think of me now," he continues, softly, "I do care a lot about you, John." The words fall loudly into the brief silence which ensues.

John blinks, on the verge of pinching himself.

"Haven't I just shown you what I think of you?" he asks, feebly.

Sherlock looks momentarily confused until he remembers the hug. "That was a spontaneous display of affection," he replies evasively, dismissing it out of self-defense in the face of his own emotions, "because you were glad I hadn't disappeared during the night."

John purses his lips, his hands on his thighs, and shakes his head: "You're unbelievable," he says slowly, getting to his feet.

Sherlock watches him with narrowed eyes as he walks around the table, subconsciously leaning away from John a little as the doctor comes to stand in front of him once more: "You're not going to punch me while I'm sitting down, are you?" he asks.

"Get up, then," John says. Never taking his eyes off him, Sherlock slips off his chair.

"Why you keep thinking I'd resort to violence is beyond me," John states. "I'm not going to punch you, Sherlock. And this, just so you know, is not an uncontrolled, spontaneous emotional act," he adds, folding his arms around Sherlock once more. This time, he is careful not to aggravate his friend's injuries, and it is a very different experience on the whole. For one, Sherlock can move his arms. He stands stock-still nevertheless, doesn't even seem to breathe.

"Relax," John advises softly; it takes a while until the tension in Sherlock's body slowly recedes. He even raises his arms and tentatively returns the embrace, patting John on the back as if to say "there, there."

* * *

When they let go this time, John can't but smile at the awkward expression on the detective's face: "It won't happen again so soon, I swear."

"Thank God."

"Though I can't speak for Mrs Hudson, of course," John adds as an afterthought. Sherlock groans, eliciting a chuckle from the doctor.

"I'll get you some painkillers now," John then says, "I know that frown."

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again; he knows from experience that there's no point in argueing with the doctor, and he could really do with some relief by now.

John can feel Sherlock's gaze on his back and suddenly feels giddy with joy because one thing seems clear: his life is on its way back to being _Nonpareil_.

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**The End  
**

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Thank you for reading. Please be so kind to leave some feedback.

I'm not a native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.

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By the way, _nonpareil_ is French for "beyond comparison".

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